The Keeper of the Keys
by RhondaStar
Summary: When Elsie catches a cold and is sent to bed it gives her far too much time to become melancholy and reflective. C/H of course!


_**My first story in a year! I seem to lose my creativity when I'm at work but this idea came to me last night and I just got to write... which is still such a wonderful feeling. I hope you like it - please leave me a little review!**_

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**The Keeper of the Keys**

A wave of nausea floats up from stomach to throat as she stands. It is early morning mid-winter and she feels the ice has seeped through the very stones and into her bones, her entire being aches as if she is bruised head-to-toe. She groans as her spine straightens, head throbbing, spinning. She has no time for illness.

She is the keeper of the keys and there's a thousand doors to be opened.

Somehow she dresses, washes her face in cold water. Brings the loose curls of hair back and pins them tightly, like hot knives pricking her flesh. She finds her shoes and leaves the sanctuary of her room, back rigid as she moves along the familiar corridors.

This house like a child to her, ever in need of attention, ever moving from one problem to another. She remains, steadfast at the helm, an immovable object, never-changing. Sometimes she wishes someone would touch her. Skin against skin.

"Mrs. Hughes, you're ill." Anna states in that soft lilting voice as they spread a cloth over the table.

"I'm aware of that Anna, I'll take a Beechams powder and retire to my office once breakfast has been served."

"You should retire to bed."

She can't help but share the sentiment.

She listens to the snow in the early afternoon. To others it would be noiseless, white upon white, but as she stands by the window at the end of the upper corridor she can see for miles and it is so silent around her she can hear each flake as they touch and melt together.

Her heart feels heavy this time of year. Christmas is over and Spring still a way off and months of cold days and colder nights. Hard labour, dark mornings, a dank atmosphere amongst the staff she doesn't fully know how to dispel, or care to.

When snowdrops make early breakages through the hard earth the heaviness in her chest lessens a little, she will pick a few and keep them in her room until the heads drop and the spines bend.

She sneezes repeatedly as she descends the stairs.

"Mrs. Hughes," his deep timbre greets her as she rounds the banister and heads towards her room. "May I have a moment?"

"Certainly," she attempts a smile as she enters his office. "What can I do for you Mr. Carson?"

"I was wondering, are you quite alright?" he is at his desk, awkward perhaps, trying to be gentle in his approach. "You have a cold." He simply states, at a loss.

"I do, I shall be fine, press on and get through it."

He sits forward, hands folded atop of his accounts book, "Should you not rest for a while, Elsie."

He uses her name and it catches her off guard, so few say it now, she sometimes forgets the sound of it, the shape of the letters.

He smiles, "I wouldn't want you seriously ill."

Dear Charles. A constant in her life for so many years now.

"Then I'll sleep." Her body sags at the sheer prospect of it. "I'll admit I'm exhausted." When he stands she takes in his height, stature, his unwavering loyalty and strength and imagines sleeping beside him, in his arms, an embrace.

"Good, I'll send Anna up with some tea later."

"Thank you. I'm sure I'll be quite well tomorrow."

He moves to the door, beside her, "Don't rush things," he says gently and there's the fleeting touch of his hand on her wrist before he opens the door. So quick. Her heart doesn't even move from one beat to the next in the time it takes but it feels like life. To be touched.

Anna encounters her part way up the stairs and observes the flustered expression. "Here," she says sliding her keys from the loop at her waist and handing them to her, "keep them safe."

As evening approaches the height of the fever hits. She doses, dreams, odd dreams where she is chasing Lord Grantham's dog down the corridors before it turns into a flock of doves in the kitchen and the door won't open, no matter how hard she pushes against it she can't let them out, set them free. And Mrs. Patmore is shouting at her about having her own keys and Daisy has spilt soup at her feet. Later she dreams of the beach. The smell of salty waves. Heated dreams of Charles peeling off her corset, dreams where she spies Anna and Bates kissing in the yard.

She wakes hot and disorientated to the howling wind. Her nightgown is stuck to her chest and her pulse thumping in her brain. On the table by her bed is a cup of tea and a glass of water, obviously Anna didn't want to wake her.

Using the headrest she pulls herself into a seating position, and drains most of the water in one go, before getting out of bed and moving barefoot to the window. She eases back the curtain and forces open one of the frosted panes, allowing the air to caress her skin, she tilts her head back, feeling the icy fingers tickle her neck, the slow seduction of the breeze upon her. The collar of her nightdress is restraining at her throat, so she loosens the buttons and allows the cool air down her flesh, across her chest and breasts, sweeping over her stomach just as her door is tapped upon.

She backs quickly from the window, letting the curtain fall, "Yes?"

"I've er, bought you some soup Mrs. Hughes." Anna, with a tray. "And fresh tea."

"Thank you Anna dear, you're being very kind." She returns to bed.

"Nonsense, it's nothing you wouldn't do for me."

"I'm afraid I'm feeling rather disorientated, my head is terribly heavy."

"Some food will help perhaps," Anna says as she sets the try upon her lap, "Did you want the window open?"

"No, I was just... I needed some air. Is everything calm down there?"

"Yes, dinner over and all settled."

As she eats she eyes the keys, her keys, at Anna's waist, a sign of things to come perhaps.

"Would you like anything else?"

"No, this is fine thank you." She splutters, coughing, reaching for her handkerchief.

The evening draws on, she lays awake, in the semi-darkness listening to the hustle of the house before bed and the slowing of things as it draws to sleep. Near midnight the air of melancholy creeps upon her, as it so often does, loneliness, this long-time friend she's had. Mostly it slinks into the background of her life, a dull ebb somewhere at the back of her heart, at times it resumes, at the forefront, leaving her depleted.

"Mrs. Hughes?" A low voice whispers as the door eases open.

"Mr. Carson," she shifts in the little bed, trying to pull herself to a sitting position, "You may come in, I'm still awake."

"I wanted to check you... well... do you need anything before I say goodnight?"

"Port," she replies, "would go down a treat."

"I'll see what I can do."

And so he sits by her small bed, on a chair dwarfed by his stature, sipping port.

"Medicinal," he says as he fills her glass.

She smiles, "And for you?"

"Well, you wouldn't wish to drink alone. I almost forgot," he draws her keys from his jacket and places them on the bedside table, "Anna gave me these."

"Thank you." She eyes them for a moment, glinting in the faint lamp light. "I'm terrible when I'm ill, too many thoughts, too much time for them to take hold."

He sat back in his chair, stretching his legs, weary, "The gift of time."

"Yes, time."

"What thoughts take hold?"

"Oh, those of a melancholy nature; regrets, questions, if life had been different, _should_ life have been different. Could it ever be?"

He remains still, silent, barely breathing. There are scarce times she dwells upon feelings, he has learnt to absorb those moments.

"I was lying here listening to the wind, the ice cracking on the windows, and it suddenly dawned upon me, I'll die here. One day. Probably right here in this very bed, in this room, alone."

"Not alone." He swallows. "Would it be such a bad thing?"

"To be alone?"

"To be here?"

"Perhaps not," she shrugs, "I never thought life would end this way."

"Now, now Elsie, it isn't the end of your life. A long way from it I hope."

"That's not what I meant Charles. Not really that." She drained her glass. "I suppose I'm just being reflective, overly so, there are times though... don't you feel, alone, lonely, like you've missed out on something?"

"Perhaps, but I try not to dwell upon regrets."

She is sagging back in the bed, exhausted, unsettled.

"Do you feel lonely?"He asks gently as he eyes are fluttering.

"Sometimes, when it matters, I look at others with a... a spouse, love." She covers her mouth as she yawns and feels Charles take the glass from her hand. "Someone to hold me at night."

He knows she is babbling, the fever and the port taking hold, but it touches his soul to hear her so honest.

"Are you warm enough?" He whispers as he leans over her, moving the sheets over her shoulder.

"Mmm..."

"It's frosty tonight..." Her hair is loose on the pillow and he has the urge to tangle his fingers in it. "Elsie, are you asleep?" His face is so close to hers he can breathe her scent. "Elsie..." he says her name slowly, reverently. "You aren't alone. I'm here."

She shifts a little, caught between sleep and awake, her hand moving out from the sheets, he timidly reaches for it, seating himself back in the chair, floating as she folds her fingers with his.

She is asleep. He watches over her.


End file.
